


wherever you go

by pluviales



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluviales/pseuds/pluviales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>     <em>I’m sure you have more important things to do,</em><br/><em>(You always do)</em><br/><em>But I just wanted you to know</em></p>
</div>Enjolras' studies are interrupted when the scrapbook is slid beneath his door, and Grantaire's hands are shaking.
            </blockquote>





	wherever you go

**Author's Note:**

> **this fic is inspired by[this fanart](http://chazstity.tumblr.com/post/47316621213/). i recommend you look at that first part before reading, and I'll provide a link to the second part for afterwards (don't look at part 2 before reading; spoilers!!).**  
>     
> i also really recommend you listen to [this](http://8tracks.com/boulevardrain/words-without-sound-ii/) instrumental playlist when reading. i haven't linked to music before but i listened to it when writing, and it's super beautiful
> 
> hope you enjoy this.

He was at his desk when the quiet knock came. Surrounded by unimaginable clutter – imposing paper tower blocks, the white of each sheet lost beneath rabid scribbles jotted down haphazardly; an array of fountain pens, his fine set which used to write smoothly as a dream, yet which now lay empty and discarded; stacks of post-it notes, plastering the wall and covering its peeling, off-white paint with looping slogans – it was difficult for him to free himself from his workspace and answer the door, a problem he had not considered when surrendering his evening to a thousand-word thesis.  
                 But as the wood was rapped again, sending the dull echo from wall to wall, concern flared up within Enjolras. Whoever knocked twice must have had urgency in doing it, and he prayed it was not so they could relay to him some grievous news – his mind flicked through the faces of those who shared the poky college accommodation with him:  Jehan, Courfeyrac, Grantaire… he could not recall any of them doing or saying anything recently which could give way to trouble. He had no need to fret, he was certain, and he had work to do. Yet the third knock, the loudest of all, was enough to push him to close the lid of the whirring laptop propped atop the desk before him and to cross over to his dormitory door: the wrinkled fabric of the Tricolore pinned to the wood brushed his wrist as he reached for the handle and yanked it open, causing the flag to flutter outwards as if with agitation. The same emotion was prevalent in Enjolras as he peered into the corridor and discovered it to be empty of any living person.  
                Muttering a curse under his breath, he spared a glance to the doorknocker itself, mounted on the wall against the dark-polished frame. It didn’t appear tampered with in any fashion, and neither had it been dislodged naturally. There was nothing wrong with the blasted thing, thus somebody must have struck it thrice and fled – their fathoming of a great joke, he presumed bitterly. There was nobody to see him; he had been interrupted needlessly.  
                So it was with an exasperated sigh that the young man crossed back over the threshold into his room, mind focusing again on his workload. Yet as he swung the door shut, feeling the breeze the motion stirred in the air swish around his calves, and sat back down at his desk, a noise made him pause – it was a rustle, so soft that it was a marvel he had been able to hear it, and it sounded from across the room. Striding towards the door once more, this time Enjolras looked down at his feet. Lying there, the corners curled and some of the pages creased, trembling slightly in the draught, was a short stack of paper, its left side fastened together with a silver ring binder. On the topmost page had been taped a post-it note which looked remarkably similar to his own brand, and was inscribed in wobbly handwriting that had clearly been intended to appear as neat as the penman could manage. Picking up the booklet, he read:

**_ This will probably creep you out, but here _ **

                Enjolras was utterly at a loss. He could not yet deduce the identity of the writer from the so painstakingly measured hand, and this frustrated him – he had a temperament which needed to always be aware, to be informed, so that he might act. Yet here he had been delivered a cipher, a puzzle, a mystery pushed beneath his door which called out to him teasingly, knowing it would aggravate him – it was upon thinking this that the handwriting became irrelevant.  
                 He knew exactly who had composed it.  
                Shutting his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, moving to sit at the edge of his bed. His voice laced with irritation, he murmured softly, “God, I don’t have time for this.”  
                One part of the tired student wished to leave it unread out of spite, to return to his work ignoring the message. That, he supposed, would tell Grantaire to leave him be when he was so busy – but that would also press him to pester him further, he realised with regret.  
                Moreover, another side of his brain lingered upon the crisp sheets of paper; curious to learn what they held. This curiosity battled ferociously against his stubborn exasperation, nagging him further and further until – with an even louder sigh than earlier – he made up his mind: Enjolras folded his legs, took a breath, and flicked to the first double page.  
                “Oh, Christ,” he muttered lowly, “Are you serious?”  
                 It was ludicrous, he chastised inwardly, as his eyes flitted across the sheets. Unreservedly, wholly absurd. He ought to be working, yet here he sat doing— oh, there was no use protesting this. Surrendering, he read the pages properly, deciding to get it over with as soon as he could.

                The first page had a snapshot taped to it, presumably one taken by Bossuet – he was currently attempting to work through a photography enrichment extracurricular, alas ninety percent of his pictures were obscured by his own thumb. This one was of the few exceptions, however, and was actually framed quite well: it depicted Enjolras, blurred slightly with motion, slamming a hand against one of the tables of the Café Musain, a student favourite and the bar their group most often frequented. Scribbled over the space next to his open mouth in the photograph, in notably scruffier handwriting than on the cover, were the words ‘ _REALLY ANGRY IMPORTANT THINGS’_ – if he hadn’t been already wound up, at this Enjolras may have allowed the corners of his lips to flicker.  
                But it was after reading that – rather condensed – caption of what it was he’d been yelling in the photograph that he noticed its other significant detail, right beneath where the words had been written; in the background, propped atop a bar stool with a wine bottle in hand and a faraway smile on his face, sat Grantaire, his gaze on Enjolras. Moving his eyes to read the next bit of scrawl, this choice of photograph made sense:

**_ I’m usually too pissed to give a damn about a word you’re saying, but I like watching you talk all the same _ **

                He looked to the right, at the next page. This one took him aback: it was stunning artwork, a product of Grantaire’s own careful hand. Again, Enjolras was easily recognisable in the foreground, sitting at a desk notably neater than the state it was in now, a hand curled beneath his chin and a pensive expression on his face. In the background, a bottle still in his grip, Grantaire was sitting on the edge of the bed much like he himself was now; and again, he was looking upon him intently, almost sadly. Grantaire had sketched Enjolras much more handsome than in reality, he thought, and the lamp switched on atop the desk illuminated the features with amber light that lent to him an almost holiness. This page had an inscription too, jotted near the top in a flat space of the painting:

_ **But you look nice when you’re not talking, too.** _

                At this, Enjolras almost shut the scrapbook. His feet shifted, readying themselves to withdraw back towards his desk out of sheer loss of patience, yet his mind wavered. As his fingers moved to the corner to lift the page, his throat was parched. He turned to the next sheet carefully, looking left, and found another photograph there: it was a lighter shot, taken in the morning, and when he saw it his insides froze and heat crept across his cheeks. He remembered that morning, he realised with growing woe, and the note at the top of this page confirmed his worry:

_ **Remember when we got you drunk and you had your first hangover?** _

                He winced, recalling the splitting pain which had drilled above his eyebrow, the ache which had weighted his entire body almost as much as the burden of shame he’d inevitably felt upon waking up to find out what had happened. Enjolras had vowed that morning to never touch spirits again, and especially not to trust Courfeyrac’s promisedly refreshing glass of clear ‘still lemonade’ – which, he later learned, tasted remarkably like vodka. He played over those memories now, as he looked at each part of the photograph. They were all in the kitchen, the awful gaudy yellow wallpaper Enjolras’ eyes to sting as he sat miserably at the table, a barely touched cooked breakfast cooling on the plate before him. Leaning over the small stove was Jehan, a frying pan in hand and an egg sizzling inside it for Courfeyrac, whose fingertips were brushing back a loose strand of the little cook’s plait as he watched from beside him. Back at the table, Grantaire was sitting next to Enjolras, eyes twinkling brightly with amusement. He didn’t have a bottle in his hand this time – it was likely too early even for him – but a spoon instead, and a bowl of cereal with it. Enjolras remembered that after he’d pushed away his plate, apologising moodily to Jehan for wasting it but explaining that he simply couldn’t stomach it, Grantaire had loaded up a spoon of this cereal and tried to offer it to him, laughing as he did so and telling him to pretend it was an aeroplane to cheer himself up.  
                That had come after the moment captured here, definitely, for at the mockery Enjolras had jerked back his chair and stalked out as darkly as he could manage while the others – including Bossuet and Joly, both out of shot – absolutely fell about. The egg that Jehan had been frying even almost slipped clean out of the pan as he bent his head to giggle, lending to another bout of laughter before Enjolras had even made it out the door. But the other footnote written by Grantaire beneath the photograph had no mention of this; rather, it was a lighter tease.

_ **That was the first time I saw your stupid pyjamas and your god-awful bed hair (how long do you spend taming that beast??)** _

                Enjolras felt his lips pinch at this, as he remembered something else that had happened, before the cereal altercation, when he’d been sitting with his head slumped in his hands, trying not to feel like he had been freshly dragged back from the afterlife. Grantaire had remembered this second event too, he saw, as he looked at the next page: The first of two small pencil sketches, left uncoloured save for the shaggy yellow mass of his curls, showed how he’d been slouched; and standing behind him, his face cropped out but his sweatshirt recognisable, was Grantaire.

_ **You looked so offended when I touched it** _

                Beneath that caption was the second drawing: Enjolras’ face, turned upwards with a look of frowning confusion set upon it, and Grantaire’s fingers tangled in his hair.

_ **But it was soft** _

                Reading the second caption, he ran his own fingers through his ringlets, releasing a shaky breath. His mind was whirling, dizzying him, making him feel like it could crash at any given second. He pondered for a moment upon the most recent of his encounters with the drunkard, either in the house or in evening meetings when the entire group was congregated at the bar to share conversation, laughter, drink. Enjolras rarely spoke to the cynical student during these meetings, making effort to limit their exchanges within them. This was not out of hatred, or malice, not at all – for although the other student’s sceptical interjections and the mockeries of his ideas frustrated him indeed, what frustrated him more was the pang which jolted him when he threw Grantaire a glance across the room after delaying it for so long, and found his eyes to already be upon him. For constantly, he felt the heat of the gaze pressing at him, twisting his insides with conflict: this drunkard challenged him, contradicted him, goaded him. He continually tried to steal from Enjolras a response – and this scared him. Because Grantaire was the only one who tested his patience, whose words buzzed inside his mind longer than any of the others. He was the only member of their faction who acted as if he did not wish to be part of it; he was the odd one out. And inevitably, this drew Enjolras to him. But the boy leader did not want to be drawn to him, did not want to be lured; he did not like the movements and urges this boy put forth, and he despised the wrenching those eyes spurred on in his chest when he dared allow himself that occasional glance. For he entered each one knowing that the other pair of eyes, blue and twinkling, would be there, would grab him so – yet like a martyr, he surrendered to them anyway.

                It was time to turn to the next page, he realised. And as he did, his temples pounding heavier with each moment, his eyes skimmed across the photograph they found taped there. This one, he did not remember, and with reason – it was a group shot, with many of his friends gathered together: Marius next to Cosette, Courfeyrac and Jehan, Éponine, Grantaire, Combeferre – the latter held a piece of paper up to the camera, a worried expression written upon his face, the sign reading _‘_ _I swear I had no part in this!’ _– as well as he himself. Yet in this photo, he was the only one asleep. Head squashed into his shoulder, his reading glasses askew, with books toppled over him here and there and one clutched in his dangling hand, an assignment pressed to his chest, he was sprawled out across the living room sofa, truly out cold. It was hardly a flattering image of him, and his heart plummeted at the sight of it, his shock dissolving to frustration as he read Grantaire’s scribble beneath it.

_ **You should really stop sleeping all over the place, you have a bed for a reason** _

_ **(two, actually, if you get my drift)** _

                Enjolras frowned, but that was not all – a second note at the bottommost part of the page appeared to read his mind in advance:

_ **Don’t bother ripping this out, we took at least 100** _

                He should have scowled even more deeply at this, but instead his face softened slightly, as he imagined his friends being gathered to take the photographs; as he saw the laughter in their smiles and the gleeful words on their lips, caught in mid-sentence in the photograph. But it turned to a frown again as he realised where Grantaire had positioned himself in the shot – he was leaning on the arm of the couch, next to Enjolras, so close his dark curls and the golden ones touched. And he was the only person not looking at the camera, for in this photograph he had eyes only for Enjolras. They looked even more poignant than in the earlier shots – half-lidded, infused with longing. A deep contrast to the joking captions he’d written around the photograph.  
                Enjolras felt a lump rise in his throat and tore his view to the next page.

                On this one was another painting, equally as impressive as the one before, and remarkable in its accuracy: it depicted him as he was sitting now, perched at the side of his bed, arched over the scrapbook in his hands, a deeply thoughtful look on his face and deep lines etched in his forehead. There was an explanation for it at the top, again in Grantaire’s messier hand.

_ **You probably look like this right now, (If you even bothered to read this, that is.)** _

                The artist had predicted correctly, and had even gone far as to throw in another caption as to what he might be thinking – _‘What the fuck is this?’_   was scribbled beside the figure of Enjolras, and it managed to make him smile.

_ **And I’m sure you have more important things to do,** _

_ **(You always do)** _

                But this made that smile flicker, and fall, as the familiar ache set into his chest again. It was paining him intensely to read these words, to witness how rawly Grantaire had exposed his soul to him across these pages, and his eyes began to sting. As he turned over to the final double-page spread, this stinging surged and he felt his cheeks become wet:

                There were two last paintings, breathtaking in their artistry, in their colour, side-by-side. The first was framed from the perspective a person would have if they were looking into his room from the corridor; and in it, somebody was. Depicted ghostlike, barely there, only Grantaire’s back was visible as he looked into Enjolras’ room. Enjolras was sitting inside, his back and side able to be seen, but not his face – it was buried in his hands. Seeing this, seeing how Grantaire had noticed when he was broken, had noticed all along; it only killed him further. He lifted a hand to his face, squeezing it between his thumb and fingers, his wrist quaking. This painting was topped with larger handwriting than any of the others, the writing even less controlled, shakier – the hand that had written it had been trembling, too:

_**But I just wanted you to know** _

                On the opposite page, Enjolras was painted magnificent: golden light blazed around him as he stood high before a crowd, one arm sweeping into the distance – into the future; the hand of his other arm curled in a fist, his teeth gritted, his eyes burning. It was one of his rallies; the backs of placards painted here and there around the assembly gathered. The crowd itself had been spared in detail, save for one member: Grantaire, there as he always was. Again only his back was visible, his green hooded jacket and his unruly mass of dark curls, but Enjolras could picture his expression all the same as he looked up at him: it was an expression of awe, of wonderment and fear, of exhilaration and delight and grief and wretchedness all at once.  
                There was one last line of the story, and Enjolras read it slowly, letting his eyes trail over each letter:

_**I'll follow you** _

_**Wherever you go** _

                He could barely manage to read the scribbled parenthesises added at the very end but for the mist which had gathered in his vision, the tears making the page swim; they caused the crowd to sway and stir, and his fist to strike the skies, and Grantaire’s to head lower so slowly. He wiped them away feverishly, sniffing once loudly, pulling himself together, mentally cursing Grantaire, and himself, and the book in his hands, and the heart in his chest, and the tears on his cheeks. He cursed the world as he blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes, roughing across them with his sleeve, and read the final additions in their small print:

_ **(Even though you don’t want me to)** _

_ **(And even though I don’t approve)** _

_ **((Someone has to stop you from getting stabbed, right?))** _

                His chest heaving, his teeth gritted, his features twisted in a painful sorrow, he shut the scrapbook forcefully, holding it tightly in both hands. He stayed that way for some minutes, unmoving, just processing all that he’d read and all that he’d learned. In this time he fought a thousand wars against his mind, against his heart, constantly changing sides, casting away enemies over and over in vain as new ones sprung up to replace the last each time he thought he could settle; new questions, new problems, new heartaches. He wrestled with them all in those moments, sitting alone, letting the earth turn and the moon spin around him in their nightly dance without giving time a single thought. He was too absorbed in battles of his own in those selfish few minutes.

                And then he was done, and he stood up, and he walked out of his bedroom. The scrapbook was in his grasp, his thumb tracing circles over it as he paced quietly across the landing, past Courfeyrac’s and Jehan’s room, right to the end of the corridor. He stopped at the last door, hesitating – it was shut, and he hadn’t been heard; he could still carry out the short-lived idea he’d had earlier, the notion of ignoring the delivery. It would still be possible; all he would have to do was turn away and tiptoe back to his bedroom.  
                But again, he lingered.

He knocked.

 

                Inside, Grantaire was sitting in the dark. His curtains were still cracked open, so a sliver of washed out moonlight crept in, yet he was consumed by shadows on his side of the room. He was sitting on his bed, his head leaning back against the cold wall, his eyes closed, and his bottle cold too; almost drained fully. His body was weary, his mind fatigued as well, for he hadn’t noticed the sun set and the moon rise. Yet he didn’t want to see it. Grantaire was tired of seeing. He had been seeing for far too long, but what he had been looking at was blind. So his sight was a waste; it was a curse. He didn’t want it any more. So long as he could still taste the fire of brandy on his tongue, he would be all right without it. He could be blind, if he tried. He could easily shut his eyes, and look away. That would be better for him; for the both of them.  
                Except he knew it wasn’t true.

As he opened his eyes, he saw his hands were trembling, and only partly from the chill of the night. Grantaire looked at the deep blue smudge along the side of his left hand: ink, staining the skin of his little finger as his hand had moved across the page when he’d been writing. He chuckled bitterly – already it had been proved that he could not be blind, for already that stain served as a reminder of his sight, and what he’d done about it. He had spent so long wondering, pitching ideas to himself of how to say what every cell in his body craved to. Yet with each fresh idea, both his disapproval and his desperation grew, leaving him filled with more self-pity, more self-hatred, and a heavier hangover than the one before; until it struck him, the impossibility of his plan. He could not ever bring himself to speak it – instead, he would have to write it.  
                So that was what he had done, spending days on end drawing, painting, perfecting his message. If he could have ripped his heart from his chest and taped that to the page, it would have proved less painful than what he had to do instead. And finally he had finished it, and read it. Then he’d lit the electric fire in his room, and kneeled beside it with his creation in his paint-covered hands until his forehead dripped with sweat and the corners of the pages had curled inwards from the heat. He’d turned away from the fire then, kicked the scrapbook aside, and started in on the cluster of wine bottles stashed in the bottom of his wardrobe instead. And when he was finally drunk enough, he’d returned to it. It was a short, quick walk out of his room and along the corridor, though he stumbled twice on the way and had to reach out for the banister to save himself. So it was with curses under his breath that he’d made it to Enjolras’ room.  
                He’d knocked, heard a stir, and darted into the empty bathroom across the hall. Yet Enjolras did not emerge. He knocked a second time, louder, hid again – nothing. The third time, he’d dropped the booklet to the floor and kicked it beneath the door as he’d slammed the knocker hard against it, before running swiftly and quietly as he could back to his room. Grantaire had shut the door behind him then, knowing his fate was sealed, and let his back slide down it until he was crouched on the floor, knees up to his chest, hands wrapped around them tightly.  
                Since then he’d moved to his bed, letting his body be more comfortable against the pillows, but his mind was no more at ease. He’d picked up the last bottle in his supply from his bedside table, gnawed out the cork with his teeth in a movement so well-practiced that it was fluent as his tongue, and now the bottle was almost empty. He peered into it, gauging how much was left, then rested his head back against the wall and resumed his pose, his eyes closing again.  
                That was when the knock sounded.

It was softer than his raps with the knocker – this one was just knuckle against wood, and gently so. But it startled Grantaire as if it were a roll of thunder, and his eyes snapped open. Yet he found himself unable to move from the bed, as though he’d been rooted there permanently. His only motion was clutching the neck of the bottle even more tightly. Some moments passed, but the knock did not come again, and Grantaire began to think he had left – but then, making a low creak, the door was slowly pushed open and light spilled into his room. Standing in the centre of it, appearing there as though he were ablaze, or a fiery deity landing from above, was Enjolras. Grantaire turned in the bed, crossing his legs and facing him as he moved forwards in the light, moved towards him. Was it an apparition? It could easily be; though Grantaire wondered every time he saw his Apollo if he was living in a dream. He looked up at him now like the prisoner looks at the sun during his first dawn since release; like the straggling traveller catches glimpse of his destination after months of crawling to it on bloodied knees; like the people look at the moon when it re-emerges after a lunar eclipse, brighter and more dazzling than ever before. He looked up at him, and he was born again beneath the eyes he found there.

Neither said anything at first – for a few moments, they only regarded each other in silence. Then, still wordless, Enjolras held out his arm – in his hand was the scrapbook, closed. Grantaire blinked, his reaction delayed, still held enrapt. After a moment, he reached to take it with his free hand, lowering both his bottle and the book to his lap. Enjolras was smiling slightly, his heavy-lidded eyes looking down at him wistfully, softly. Grantaire could no longer draw breath. He waited hungrily for each new moment to arrive, for it would be a moment closer to his next action. And then it came: Enjolras spoke.  
                “Yeah,” was all he said at first, the smile still there, wrapped up in his voice as well as his lips. “That was pretty creepy.”  
                Grantaire smiled as well, his eyebrows twitching together, his eyes watering. Still, he could say nothing, do nothing. But he had no need to, for Enjolras was the one who moved. He knelt one leg on the bed, lowering himself until his head was level with Grantaire’s, and he reached out a finger, hovering it beneath Grantaire’s chin. His expression was plagued with emotion, his lips partly opened; Grantaire trembled, yet did not waver. He kept his eyes on Enjolras until he was so close that he could feel his breath tickle his skin. That was when he closed his eyes, his body burning, ready for the following moment. His soul was on fire, and the smoke clouded his mind like a drug, making it whirl. He could feel Enjolras’ light stroke of his chin, and his skin tingled where his finger had been. He swallowed, his throat arid, quivering in anticipation, and squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly. He’d waited for this moment; he’d dreamt of it, he’d ached for it, and now it was here.

But then his skin felt cold. Grantaire opened his eyes, but they were deadened as they saw Enjolras moving away. Standing upright again he reached out a hand, touching his palm to the side of Grantaire’s face – but the drunkard didn’t react to the touch, didn’t move to press his head into Enjolras’ hand like he so longed to do, because he knew within a moment it would be gone, and he would be left with that chill. He didn’t dare so much as blink, as take his eyes from his Apollo for a split second, as he was right, and Enjolras dropped his hand to his side.  
                Again they regarded each other for a moment, and then his back was turned, the door was closed behind him, Grantaire was plunged into darkness again.

He sat motionless, his eyes empty, his entire body bleeding. His fingers were numb to the scrapbook and the bottle in his hands. Time passed, but he did not feel it.

                And then he turned, shifting backwards in his bed, moving his back against the wall again, resuming his former position. The wrist holding the book was limp, but his nails dug into the pages until beads of blood bloomed at the cuticles. He moved the bottle closer to his chest, turned his eyes to the moon, and smiled as the tears welled up.

                For although his vision blurred beneath them, and his chest felt hollow, and his heart bled, he could still see.

**Author's Note:**

> [here](http://chazstity.tumblr.com/post/47316553605/) is the second part to the fanart - i want to give the artist chaz a really big thank you for making it because it truly struck me and stuck in my head so much that i ended up asking her to write this! all credit for the inspiration of course goes to her, so thank you for the amazing work.
> 
> and another thank you to everybody reading this; i hope you liked it! If you did, as always, comments/kudos are completely cherished. thanks again! ♥


End file.
